


Exaltation

by EmmG



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Darkish Solas, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, I suppose, Inquisition Timeline, Omfg what are those tags, POV Solas, Solas Being Solas, Solas is a passive-aggressive asshole, Solas stays because he's selfish, happyish ending, more like non graphic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmG/pseuds/EmmG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, she would break him but not before he shattered her. Solas couldn't retract his claws from the tiny Dalish he called his heart who led the Inquisition with a smile and an unhealthy dose of mercy. He could not and would not, and they would both suffer for it. But for now, he braided her hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exaltation

It was out of necessity, but also out of selfish indulgence, that he remained. When was indulging anything but selfish, then again? He wanted his orb and they wanted the Breach closed; it just so happened their paths had crossed.

He felt on a different level. His perception was marred with knowledge that had been long lost, his bitterness turned to apathy turned to resolution. But he still felt, and it could not be compared to the emotions of those he walked alongside now. He healed, offered food, and spoke words of comfort his mind did not believe but lips willingly spilled. At the behest of a tiny little woman with markings like colorful lies upon her skin, he was once again helping.

"Your hands will get calloused, Solas."

Foxy, Varric called her in between fits of roared laughter and affectionate smiles. And she was, Solas supposed, yes she was. Quiet and light on her feet, snow never once whining beneath her soles as she walked. Cloaked in shadows she was, when in the heat of battle, while he drew attention.

Yes, she was very quiet.

And even more pale.

Her hair fell over her shoulder as she reached out to him, usually agile fingers rendered awkward by his prolonged silence. Elfroot paste clung to his skin as he allowed her hesitant contact; the bowl he held clanked slightly against the rock beneath, the mixture threatening to slosh over the edge.

"Why?" he asked.

Ellana poured a small vial of oil between his palms and her own before taking his hand. She massaged the skin, her fingertips insistent where roughness had begun to spread like an illness.

This was as much a break for her as it was for him. They'd been tending to refugees all day. Wariness glazed her eyes, but she seemed content.

"Because you are careless and reject gloves," she said, simply. Her chuckle was a little bit breathless. "I've ordered so many pairs made for you and not once have I seen you wear any of them."

Pairs that now sat in his quarters in a neat little row at which he stared without clear reason; an accusing reminder that someone cared -- a care unmotivated by personal gain which was a flavor he'd yet to experience -- and that he should _not_ in return.

"That is not what I am asking and you know it well."

He wished there wasn't such a hard edge to his voice, like glass cutting through his kindness.

Her mouth moved, bloodless lips forming the start of a word attributed to familiarity _. Letha --_ a quivering whisper began and promptly died. She righted herself, pulled her mask back on, and he rearranged his own on the same shaky breath. Ellana pressed her thumb to the middle of his palm and his tension fled, swallowed by her ministrations.

Warms hands. Warm, gentle hands that somehow found peace of mind in rubbing his old skin. She'd bleed herself dry one day, her compassion would devour her, leaving behind an empty husk.

And she felt a little too real.

"You seek to establish a kinship with no other basis than an accident of birth," he said, hating himself when she froze for but a moment. "I am not one of your people."

Her fingers crawled up, rubbing his wrists. She paused, taking it upon herself to roll his sleeves to further expose skin. And her touch was soft, just as her smile, a coy thing perched upon the corner of her lips like a promise.

"Humor me," she said. "Pretend for a moment you feel no disgust for my persona."

"I have never been disgusted by you."

Exasperated, yes. Irritated, most certainly. But she had chipped down those walls with the resolve only the young possess. Like a bird, she'd crashed her beak against the diamond of his facade time and again until he found himself responding to her sweet teases.

She would roll her eyes at his tirades and sit cross-legged whenever he went off on a wild rant. Her interest in him -- but not in _him_ \-- was disconcerting.

"Thank you," Ellana said.

One should never thank another for not hating them. The disgust she spoke of finally flared -- at himself.

Solas pulled his hands away, oil dribbling down his forearms and soaking his sleeves. He would carry her scent. Not the heady flavor of lavender and juniper, with just a hint of mint, but hers. The instant she touched the vial, it became a part of her. And now it clung to his skin, his clothes, like a reminder that should have been unnerving but proved the furthest thing from.

"I would like to be your friend, Solas," she whispered. "Is that so horrible?"

Gentle Ellana who'd sought him out time and again back when Haven still stood and continued doing so even now. A little curious and very much lost. Still but a child with the burden of the world thrust upon her who wished for one familiar face; one he could not give her.

"To what end?"

Her eyes widened and her head tilted. "Must there be one?"

Yes. Always.

But not for her.

And it made his head hurt in confusion.

*

Vivienne was possibly the only thing he would have gladly watched the world devour and spit back mangled and bruised. He could appreciate confidence, but her particular brand bordered on malignity. The air was thick with their shared animosity, the rest of the party having wandered away from their verbose squabble.

"Darling," Vivienne stated, elegant in all matters and remaining so in the rainy weather of the Hinterlands, "I am merely stating that your expertise is very specialized. Peculiar, one might say."

"Ah, yes, whereas your experience of court intrigue and scandal, combined with an uptight, close-minded Circle of Magi upbringing is the perfect blend to guide the Inquisitor in her journeys," Solas remarked, rearranging the wrappings around his palms as not to look at her. Still no gloves -- no _he_ r gloves.

"There is nothing wrong with a little restraint, Solas. I know what there is to fear and as such am not blinded by fanatical fascination. It offers the advantage of a clear mind."

"I assure you my mind is quite clear, Enchanter."

Vivienne arched a perfect eyebrow. Even with the sheen of exhaustion upon her skin, she remained ever composed which was something he envied. His own bones whined from the humidity and he longed for the comfort of a fire. "That was made particularly evident the day your robes caught fire, my dear."

"Do keep clinging to that singular misstep. Nothing showcases intellect like resorting to the same argument out of desperation."

"Singular misstep? Why, you are very confident, Solas."

"I am reasonable, but you could benefit from a hint of humility."

"The very humility you claim to possess? There is none to be found in your words."

He was tempted to throw one of her dears or darlings back at her, a word she used as efficiently as any weapon to downgrade others in conversation, but smothered the desire. He could afford to be only so juvenile until their unassertive, passive rivalry escalated into full-fledged conflict.

Vivienne stretched and popped her joints. "I do believe we are needed ahead," she said, striding past him.

Dorian and Lavellan had stumbled into a Venatori encampment. Ellana quickly broke into stealth, her lithe figure cutting through shadows with the very grace he'd complimented in a moment of cocky leisure. He could hear Dorian's boisterous laughter from where he stood, safe in the backlines, as he cast a barrier over their forms. Fire rippled through the ground, lapping at the soldiers' legs; the stench of scorched flesh filled the air. And when those who fell in Dorian's first wave rose to carry out the second, corpses with strings artfully pulled, the mage grew reckless.

Solas had never been an offensive force. The position suited Dorian better, even Vivienne who switched between roles with a mastery he begrudgingly admired. He'd protect from the sidelines and whisk one away from the heat of battle if he felt their strength waning. But he was the first to see the sword gleam a hairbreadth from Lavellan's neck and, apparently, the only.

The fade-step carried him too close to her, and the blade stilled at his own throat where his personal barrier shattered it. Ellana stumbled and crashed into him. Her lips were moving, but he couldn't hear her, was only acutely aware that she'd come dangerously close to having her pretty head chopped off. He pulled her against his chest, and thrust the sharp end of his staff into an oncoming soldier's throat. He tasted iron as blood gushed from the wound and straight into his face, but he was already fade-stepping back with Ellana in tow before the same could befall her.

Vivienne froze the man and Dorian destroyed the statue he'd become with a violent kick to the back. Ice and fragments of flesh and bone fell around him like morbid droplets; a rain of chilled blood which crunched beneath the soles of his boots as he made his way back to them.

"Thank you," Ellana murmured.

Solas realized he was still gripping her, perhaps too tightly even, and relaxed his hold as she wriggled out of his arms.

"Did you see?" Dorian called, pride rolling off him in waves. "Ellana! Aren't you glad you sent for those old grimoires, now? I told you it would prove a useful errand. Next time I shall attempt to make them dance the Orlesian waltz with their throats still slit. Can you imagine the spectacle? What a spell, indeed."

"What is wrong with you?" Solas spat. He forgot himself for a moment, shoving the younger man with a trembling hand. "You show off, parade your talents with the disregard of a selfish child, when you should focus on keeping the Inquisitor safe. Your negligence nearly cost her her head."

Dorian scoffed, crossing his arms. "I did no such thing. Perhaps it is your barrier that was weak, old man."

Solas ignored him, turning his glare Vivienne's way. "And you, Enchanter, you were steps away from her."

"Yes, while you hid in the shadows. As always," Vivienne commented, sounding rather bored. "Shall we enumerate our faults or move on before reinforcements arrive?"

"That outfit would be the first on the list," Dorian quipped. "It screams apostate hobo."

"Unwashed apostate hobo, more specifically," Vivienne remarked, admiring the polished curve of her nails, trying to dislodge the grime of blood and dirt from underneath.

"Solas," Ellana said, her little hand grasping his wrist before he could advance on the sneering duo. "I'm well. We're all well. Let's get moving. I want to get out of here before nightfall."

"Yes." He exhaled through his teeth and broke into a brisk walk with her on his heels. She was supposed to lead, after all, and here he was at the head of their unbalanced group.

Perhaps a party of mages, two of whom suffered from an incurable excess of vanity, with only Ellana to break the monotony with her roguish skills, was a terrible idea. But for the love of him, he couldn't bring himself to question her decision.

It was not his place to question anything, least of all her choice of companions, was the reasonable explanation Solas clung to.

In truth, a primal and ridiculous fear had wedged itself into his chest -- what if she heeded his advice and left him behind next time?

*

He wished he could stop his eye from twitching. Solas settled for emptying his mug, hiding his nose in it in the process. Lavellan drummed her fingers over the wooden table, so close he could feel her warmth. She was a little flushed from drink, and pleasantly slouched forward, head cocked to the side as she pinned him with a stare.

"You don't mind sharing a room, do you Solas?" she asked yet again. "Vivienne made it clear that it was out of the question and Dorian has acquired a new friend for the night."

Solas threw a heated glare toward the Tevinter who had his hands fondling the backside of a willowy man as both stumbled up the stairs. "A new friend," he muttered. Only she would describe a dirty, sweaty tumble in a questionable tavern in such a sweet way.

She made a humming sound, tone rising at the end in a wordless question.

His mug was effectively empty. It was time to put it down, but Solas clutched at it with restless fingers. "No," he sighed at last, "of course not. I will happily oblige."

They'd shared tents on occasion when necessity demanded. But they had been in the wilderness, muscles aching and minds spent. Neither applied at the present. He gazed at her as she absentmindedly threaded her fingers through her hair and a foolish part of him wished to tell her to braid it -- oh she lacked the knowledge, why he would certainly weave the strands for her into something that would last for days.

Didn't she tell him he had nimble fingers?

Solas shook his head. "I will retire now," he said. "You may stay as long as you desire. You will not wake me, I assure you."

She mirrored him; both rising and head nodding. "No, no. I'm very tired. I was waiting for you."

Ellana swayed a little as she ascended to the second floor, and he kept vigil at her back, ready to catch her should she slip. But if he indeed possessed nimble fingers, then she was the owner of a pair of very nimble feet for not once did she stumble and before long her hands were tugging off her boots and sending them flying across the room.

"Do you want the bed?" she asked.

"No, take it."

He could afford suffering through stiff bones for one more day; they were due to reach Skyhold in the morning either way. How soft he'd become, yearning for the comfort of a shemlen bed and pillows stuffed with down. Solas rolled out his bedroll and didn't bother with anything, not even his foot wraps, as he positioned himself on the floor and turned his back to her.

She huffed and puffed, shrugging off her outer layers. He heard her jacket as it fell, the buttons clanking against the ground, but otherwise everything else remained in place -- for which he was incredibly grateful.

There was a soft exhale and then he felt her slide beside him. Her giggle tickled the back of his neck, and he turned around, his nose nearly colliding with her own. Ellana just smiled at him, completely disregarding the questioning arch of his eyebrow. Her pale hair spilled around her, knotted and lovely; if he were to shift just so, it would end up in his mouth, so he had to be careful.

"What was it that Dorian ordered?" she whispered in the tone of a conspirator as though they were plotting a revolution. "My throat still burns."

"Hirol's Lava Burst," he reminded her. Yes, now was the ideal time to draw on his impeccable memory to bring forth useless facts. "I see it has left quite the impact on you."

"You're not drunk, though."

"I am not."

"Why?"

Solas wasn't certain how to answer that. "I have more experience drinking, I suppose."

"Hm."

Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder. He considered grasping her wrist and guiding it away, but her exploration was innocent. She made her fingers walk the expanse of his collarbone and over his jaw line, all the way remaining perfectly quiet.

"If you say so, hahren," Ellana declared at last.

Ah. Hahren. Well then. That certainly cooled his mind. His younger self would have reached out to her, accepting her awkward invitation without consideration; jumped on the occasion to wrestle her out of her clothing after a long day of walking -- and who would know in the morning? Her neck was pale and long, and he would have sank his teeth into it while muffling her little sounds with a hand clamped over her mouth.

But he wasn't young and she offered nothing.

"Are you happy I took the mages in?" Ellana asked. Her hand had fallen away from his face after tracing his cheekbones.

"I am content, yes, but my opinion doesn't matter."

"Cullen thinks we should have allied ourselves with the Templar Order," she murmured, fixating on a point past his shoulder.

He sneered, despite himself. "It wasn't his decision to make." That sounded childish. Unbecoming of a hahren if that's what he was to be to her. "He was biased from the beginning. You made the call with a clear mind, having judged both sides of the coin," Solas corrected himself.

"Were _you_ biased?"

"Most certainly. I am a mage."

Ellana laughed a wheezing laugh; he tasted the alcohol on her breath as it wafted against his lips. "Then your approval means nothing."

He couldn't help the smile that shattered his mask of cold composure. "Indeed," he said, slowly. "Clever girl."

Her knee nudged his and he couldn't be certain whether it was an accident or not. "Dorian lets me sleep on his arm when we share a tent. He's very warm."

"Dorian is well versed in elemental magic. I believe fire is his personal favorite." Making corpses dance notwithstanding.

That was the furthest he could manage from what she expected from him. He hoped it would placate her.

When this time her foot kicked his, it couldn't have been a happy coincidence twice in a row. "Can I sleep on your arm?" Ellana asked, firing away the words as though they would melt in her mouth if she wasn't quick enough.

Solas sighed and rolled on his back. He stretched his arm out for her, knowing his muscles wouldn't thank him in the morning, and she curled into him. Her breath, so warm and close and hot and moist -- too many wonderful things at once, and Solas was hit with the realization that he wouldn't be catching a wink of rest this night.

"I've been reduced to a pillow, then?" he asked when, after endless minutes, it became clear she was too fidgety to be asleep.

Ellana snorted and covered her mouth, but the ugly little sound was already out. "Better than apostate hobo, don't you think?"

"The exact words were unwashed apostate hobo, if I am not mistaken."

"How quick you are to claim a title."

"I do what I can. Why let such a sincere compliment go to waste."

She actually pressed her face into the crook of his neck as she laughed. "You smell of elfroot," Ellana announced, "and sweat, but that's to be expected after today. But usually -- ah, usually, I think you carry the scent of ink and paint. I can think of worst smells." She sniffed him, making a display of it.

Solas hummed his noncommittal response, staring at the ceiling. He was not going to partake in this particular conversation. She'd embarked on a road that could diverge into very different paths, and he wasn't taking the chance. Not one.

"What do I smell like to you?"

"Hirol's Lava Burst. Go to sleep, da'len."

*

"I thought your tastes were more refined, Chuckles."

"Well, yes," Solas admitted, flipping through the latest edition of Swords and Shields, "but I can understand the appeal of your novels. Besides, it's an interesting insight into Kirkwall politics. That is where you hail from, yes?"

Varric scratched his jaw. "Truly, if you want an accurate description you should burn this piece of shit and pick up some scholar's work. I've sugar-coated everything."

"Have you had no desire to run for viscount? With your family's connections and wealth, you are certain to succeed. You care for and love your city-state; that is more than can be said of most rulers."

"Maybe once we're done with this Ancient Magister Asshole Inconvenience I'll consider it, Chuckles."

From above them, came a loud sighing sound. "I went to Kirkwall once, Varric," Dorian called, leaning over the railing to peer down at them.

Varric beamed. "Yeah?"

"Bit of a shithole," Dorian concluded with a distasteful curling of the lips downward.

Varric's smile receded. "Yeah."

Solas wondered yet again what had possessed him to claim the rotunda as his own. He was never safe from the Tevinter's prying.

He was browsing the different passages of the serial when Lavellan burst in, eyes wide and hair disheveled.

"Loranil arrives today," she announced without greeting. "I want him to feel welcome." Then the pointing of fingers began. "Dorian, please don't be loud. At least until he's settled in, and tell Bull not to get him drunk. Varric --Varric you're fine. Solas."

He smiled at her, inclining his head and closing the book on his finger to mark the page. "Yes, da'len?" A part of him was insanely curious at what fault she would find with him.

"Don't be racist."

That wasn't exactly what he'd expected.

Dorian's snickering grated at his nerves. Solas furrowed his brow. "Pardon me?"

"You heard me," Ellana repeated, coming in close to jab him in the chest with one long finger. "Keep your opinions of the Dalish to yourself."

"I shall remain quiet, Inquisitor," he promised after a very heavy moment of silence during which all eyes were upon him.

"Good. If you don't, I'll gut you."

"Point taken." She would. She absolutely would.

Ellana left as quickly as she came, and Varric let out an impressed whistle. "Should have nicknamed her Scary," he said with a chuckle.

"Yes," Solas conceded absentmindedly.

The only scary thing about this situation of theirs was how badly he wished to please her.

*

He couldn't run forever. True, he was quite good at it; could avoid arguments with a dismissive scoff and a roll of his eyes, but Lavellan was nothing if not persistent. And he possessed only a sliver of his poise in her company, the rest reduced to poorly-chosen words and weak excuses. She was distracting in the most sinful way.

He wanted to run his thumb over her lips.

And she was talking about an upcoming expedition to the Hissing Wastes.

"You'll burn," she said, playfully, digging her fingers into his forearm as they walked the ramparts. "You are so pale."

"As are you," Solas pointed out with a careful smile. He'd been indulging in those quite a bit lately.

That wouldn't be a bad thing, is what he kept to himself; a little tan would ever so slightly make Ghilan'nain's markings blend into her skin. He could pretend they weren't there.

"Hahren."

He froze as she put an end to their walk by blocking his way with her body. "Yes?"

"Your collar is askew," she whispered.

The right thing to do would have been to take her hands and lower them at her sides. But he was not a good man, and a particularly weak one as of late, so Solas silently watched as she clumsily rearranged the stubborn and rough fabric of his collar. She was transparent in her advances, and it was overwhelmingly endearing. Her hands remained even after everything had been fixed, and he couldn't find the strength to push her away.

"They say I am their Herald," Ellana said, fingers sliding down the string which held his wolf jaw bone. She toyed with it for a while. "I don't want to be."

"You are a symbol of hope, da'len," Solas offered. "People need to believe they belong, just as they require a figurehead or an organization not to be a nameless entity. That is what they call you, not who you truly are. That decision belongs to you alone."

"No," she laughed, humorlessly. The pad of her finger pressed into the ridge of an old rotten tooth of his amulet, testing the sharpness. "I'm a Dalish outcast sent to spy on the Conclave. In the wrong-est place at the wrong-est time. It's already been chosen who I am to be -- and I had no say in the matter."

"And what do you wish for?"

"Quiet. Yourself?"

"Peace," he confessed.

The wind blew in his direction but not in hers. Ellana's hair whipped at his cheeks and he brushed it away as tenderly as he could, avoiding her skin, and gathering the locks in his fist to prevent her ending up with a wild tangle.

"Similar desires," she said, grinning at him. "Why, hahren, is there some dark secret you harbor?"

You have no idea, he thought grimly. But all he said was, "I could return the question."

"Perhaps I am one of the witches of the wilds."

"Is that so? Do set me on fire then for I am intrigued to witness your abilities." He had no clue who she was referring to. That wasn't a detail he'd bothered figuring out in the Fade when he'd been catching up on modern history, but his response earned him her amusement.

She huffed. "I'll focus on sealing rifts for now."

"Wise choice."

He didn't want to bite her shoulder anymore and shut her mouth as not to disrupt the stillness of night. He wanted to kiss her cheek and tell her she was beautiful and kind.

Solas wished for a rock to bash his head with.

*

Selfishness threatened to consume him. It would have had been so easy to take a step back, only one, and avoid her lips altogether. It's not as if he hadn't seen her lean in. She had kissed him and he had kissed her back, blaming it on the Fade afterward because that's what he did. Still, the Fade was certainly not responsible for him sweeping in for a second taste.

And now Ellana continually teased him with what she referred to as fade-tongue. Mercilessly so.

He'd all but pleaded for time, which she gracefully granted him, but his resolve crumbled with every passing day. As did her patience.

"You're very good at avoiding me, hahren," Ellana said, shuffling through the notes on his desk. She'd just returned from Crestwood and still wore her riding attire.

Apparently it was the season for shedding, because she was covered with stray hairs from her hart's coat. Bitterly, he realized he was going to spend the next few days picking them out of his clothes as they all but gravitated toward him whenever she leaned in.

As if to prove her point, he did not look up from his book. But to contradict her, he said in a tone he hoped was both affectionate and neutral, "I am not avoiding you."

"Then I'm assuming it's pure coincidence that you raced to the library when you saw me enter the rotunda a few days past? Three steps at a time, too," she remarked, smirking. "Couldn't have been good for your knees."

"I needed a book."

"No. Dorian needs books with his short attention span and desire for constant entertainment. You have all that you're interested in right here. Arsenal for years to come. I've never seen you visit the library unless it is to borrow one of Varric's serials."

"Perhaps I'm engrossed in the tale he's weaved. Swords and Shields might be a guilty pleasure of mine."

"Fine, then tell me who got married in chapter twelve."

He couldn't. She sighed and turned to leave, her fingers trailing along the wall as she approached the door.

"Da'len," Solas called after her, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse. He pinched the bridge of his nose and hid his face in his hands. Once more he should have left her to her devices, and once more he'd failed, choked by selfishness.

"It's all right," she said, her voice tiny but mouth fighting to don the facsimile of a reassuring smile. "It's all right if you don't want me. I understand, I do."

"I do want you," he whispered, wishing he'd swallowed the words as soon they came out. He wanted her in the dark, in a filthy room of an equally filthy tavern, while she tasted of Hirol's Lava Burst. And he wanted her on the ramparts while she fiddled with the amulet at his throat. "Give me time."

And, as always, she did.

*

"Care to spar, Solas?"

He looked her over with a smirk. There she stood, haughty and proud of herself after having knocked down several of the new recruits. Ellana twirled her daggers before his face in a display of skill, the blades catching light and somewhat blinding him. Still silent, Solas thrust his staff in between the two, cutting their trajectory short right as they were about to cross and instead remained stuck in the wooden shaft. He pulled it back, wrenched the daggers out, and dropped them at her feet

"Show off," Solas chided. He leaned on his staff, palms cupping the orb at the top to create a cushion for his chin. "Haven't you been here all morning? You should rest, da'len, or tomorrow shall be very unpleasant for your muscles."

"Haven't you been wasting your life in the rotunda?" Ellana countered, grumbling under her breath while she retrieved her daggers from the dirt.

"A sore loser, are you? One more reason not to partake in this."

He enjoyed tormenting her more than was wise. Shaking his head, Solas offered a hand to haul her up to her feet. After dusting herself off, however, it was evident the ardor hadn't left her countenance. She stared at him with obvious defiance, laying out a silent challenge.

"It wouldn't be a fair fight," he said at long last, smiling gently.

Her face was smudged with a streak of fresh blood, but he knew better than to assume it was hers. And she had braided her hair -- the ridiculous pride that swelled in his chest at the sight deserved to be quashed. Still. This was his doing. His. She valued his counsel, but she also followed his advice in mundane matters. Solas briefly wondered what else he could get her to do with occasional, but tenacious, reminders.

"I've taken out mages before."

Good point, but not good _enough_. "You haven't taken out me."

"What did I tell you? He's awfully conceited," came a derisive voice.

Dorian emerged from behind the archery range, eating an apple. He took a final bite, froze the fruit, and chucked it at Solas who avoided the projectile with a lazy step to the left. Humming a light tune, Dorian fetched his own staff, cracked his neck, and came to stand at Ellana's side. The two conspirators exchanged a smug look as they turned on him.

"Well then," Dorian prompted. "You think you're the best thing since Antivan brandy? Very well. Let's see you knock both of us out."

"I spot no corpses for you to defile and make dance, Necromancer," Solas drawled out, tone bored and even. "That already puts you at a disadvantage."

Dorian waggled a finger in the air between the three of them, demanding attention. "That, my friend," he announced loudly to Ellana, striking the pose of a mentor in the middle of a grand lesson, "was supposed to be trash-talk. Let me see if I can retaliate appropriately. Ahem. Bring it on, asshole--I mean, Rift Mage."

Solas saw Ellana's hand curl into a ferocious fist around the hilt of her dagger, and that was enough. "By all means," he conceded with a curt nod.

But before he could send both of them flying with a tactful mind blast, Ellana had dropped to her knees and next thing he knew he couldn't see and his eyes were watering. Solas staggered, rubbing the dirt out of his sockets and casting a weak barrier around himself before more dirty fighting tactics surprised him. Lavellan had slipped into stealth and he was only vaguely aware of her stalking him; she'd left Dorian to be the muscle, and the latter was actually doing an impressive job of it.

With a shout he shouldn't have responded to as it was clearly a diversion ploy, Dorian captured his attention long enough to light a fire glyph around him. When Solas moved to dispel it, the heat already lapping at his toes, he felt Ellana crash against his barrier, flanking him, and retreat when her daggers proved as efficient as a kitten's claws. Solas spun, avoiding an ice spike from Dorian that would have surely punctured his chest, and in retaliation fade-stepped close enough to kick his knees out from underneath him.

Dorian did fall, but not before sending a crushing feeling of terror to wreck havoc within the confines of his mind. His barrier shattered. They both scrambled away, regaining breath. Dorian grappled for his staff, and Solas froze his hand, still struggling with containing the factitious panic in his veins; Solas tried to put distance between them, and Dorian sent a trail of fire after him, forcing his feet to perform an awkward little dance in avoidance; Dorian at last settled for simply rolling out of the way, jumping upright, and giving Solas a forceful shove in between the shoulder blades with his staff.

They were, perhaps, a bit too engrossed in each other. Maybe they were taking out their frustrations with one another in violence. Maybe. But admitting that would be accepting they indulged in infantile behavior. Solas was too proud and Dorian too arrogant which, in retrospect, were two sides of the same coin.

Lightning crackled around him and drove Dorian back as Solas finally retreated. A bolt sizzled dangerously close to the Tevinter's cheek, and Solas was somewhat disappointed when it didn't graze his mustache. He continued casting, keeping the other mage at bay, until the latter did something unbecoming. Dorian erected cones of ice which came close to cutting Solas' face, the sharpest of the bunch inches from his chin.

A waste of mana; his precision was lacking. Solas snickered, a flame already forming in his free palm, when he felt rather than saw a shadow. Ellana leaped over the makeshift staircase of ice, using it for memento as she crashed her entire body weight into him. Her knee slammed into his chest, and perhaps his heart stilled for the briefest of seconds so powerful the impact proved to be. He felt the back of his head collide with soft grass, but still saw stars, and for a second forgot how to breathe as she compressed his windpipe with her elbow.

The tip of her dominant blade pressed to his abdomen; the other dragged over his agape mouth.

She was flushed, panting into his face with wild abandonment. "I told you I'd gut you," she whispered, and then rolled off him. Her tongue flicked over her dry lips.

They lay side by side, chests heaving.

He could hear her roared laughter, but he couldn't yet inhale properly, his diaphragm remaining bruised and infusing each breath with agony, much less focus on what she was saying. The only satisfaction he got out of this ordeal came in the form of Dorian's bloodied lip -- his work.

Solas sat up, feeling her fingertips at his jaw, coaxing him out of his thoughts.

"Not bad," Ellana's mocking lilt conveyed. She used his shoulder to push herself to her feet.

Then another hand, rougher, bigger, grabbed him and lent assistance he absentmindedly accepted. Blackwall had wandered close to watch the fight, as had most of Skyhold it seemed. Josephine was shaking her head in disapproval while Vivienne smirked from a distance as if she'd been the one to best him.

"Shit," Blackwall said, wiping his hands on his apron. "I was so sure you were a safe bet, Solas."

"There was betting involved?"

"Your cockiness bought me a pint of ale, hahren," Ellana called as she bounced off to the Herald's Rest, hips swaying in time with Iron Bull's cheers and Dorian's chuckles.

"Fuck you," Blackwall grunted, the bass of his voice making his chest rumble, as he handed over a sovereign to Varric. "You will bleed me dry, Dwarf."

Varric felt no obvious shame in seizing his winnings. "Don't be a spoilsport, or I'll tell Foxy to braid flowers into your beard next time you sleep."

Yes. Foxy. She was quiet. Too quiet.

Solas was confused. Simply confused and nothing more.

A horrified Cullen whispered, "What have you done to the courtyard? All the training swords have been burned!"

*

Ar lath ma, he'd said and allowed himself to feel.

Vhenan, he'd called her and with a singular word claimed her as his.

He'd spent so much of his life in pursuit of wisdom to appease the raging fire of his Pride. But he foolishly embraced it now and discarded prudence. She was soft and real and kind, and she'd angled her head just so while she waited for him to kiss her.

Reality tingled in every cell of his body, and it was a delightful kind of pain for she was its bringer. She tasted of impending regret, but it was a flavor he could drown in.

And because at the very core of himself he was nothing more than the embodiment of Pride, Solas drew her in the circle of his arms and did not let go. It was him that she wanted -- there was so much he could offer, but of that she knew naught, and it spurred him on. Ignited his mind with feverish want. He'd been sought out for power and privilege in the past, but never out of innocent affection.

Her throat was so near. He could rip it open with his teeth and watch her bleed. He could put her back together again.

And she would let him.

She should run, should always run from him, but his grip on her was already bone-crushing without her realizing it. He doubted he could retract his claws.

*

She slipped her hand into his as they walked and watched him expectantly from the corner of her eye. He stroked her skin with his thumb, bringing her knuckles to his lips in a chaste kiss.

"What shall we introduce you as?" Ellana inquired, sighing.

The upcoming reception at the Winter Palace kept her awake with worry. He'd suggested draughts and potions, but she'd declined them all, choosing to peruse the countless letters which were continually poured down the Inquisition's throat. Marriage proposals, at which she'd sneered. Graceless praises, referencing her Dalish heritage. Requests for assistance. So many demands.

She was spreading herself too thin; he could see it in the shadows beneath her eyes, in the jutting of her ribs whenever she pressed against him.

Solas shrugged. "I do not care," he said. "I will blend in with the other servants either way. It's for the best. You need someone to listen without attracting attention."

"Yes, well, we still need some sort of title for you."

"I have a name. You may resort to that."

Ellana huffed, elbowing him gently in the side. "How do you imagine that going? Here we have the Inquisitor, the Herald of blessed Andraste, the one who closed the Breach nearly single-handedly. Oh, and that guy at her back is Solas, say hi to him too. He's an apostate or something like that."

"You call me hahren."

"I can't present you as hahren to the Orlesian court."

Solas laughed, deep and low, as he brought their stroll to a halt. The night was young, but she barely slept as of late and woke up with the birds whenever she did drift off. He steered her back toward her quarters.

"Who do you think we ought to support?" Ellana asked, quieter than previously. She drew closer to him, eyes still darting between his face and the ground, as if expecting something.

Solas pondered it for a moment. The individual who'd end up on the throne would inevitably become an ally -- exactly what sort of ally they required, was the true question at hand. What kind of constant would benefit them in the long run.

And him. He could prevent a future hindrance with a meek suggestion. This was something to consider in the future, after he'd judged the candidates.

"You are attending at the Grand Duke's arm, correct?" he began. "He is a powerful military force."

"So were the Templars."

"You know my opinion on that. It isn't a good comparison."

"Gaspard is very quick to offer his allegiance. He hasn't even met me yet and he's already sending Chevaliers to fill our ranks where they are lacking."

"Gaspard wants the throne, but he has every right to vie for it," Solas remarked. "The Empress is an usurper, no matter how you look at the picture. She is a pretty snake extending one hand to the Inquisition while clutching a knife in the other."

"So you think I should listen to the Duke?"

"I am saying that neither are saints, vhenan, and ultimately you will side with a liar and cheat so don't delude yourself as to their natures. Play their Game if you must, but weigh what one can give you as opposed to the other. And even if one proves a kinder soul, it shouldn't matter if the rival's offer is sweeter."

Her lips twitched, the smile wiped from her features. She was so pale again. "It's a very sad way to look at things, Solas, at people."

He leaned down to press a soft kiss to the crown of her head as they arrived at the door leading to her quarters. "You are to enter a nest of vipers, my love. Steel your heart."

She did not release him when he pulled back. Instead, her fingers curled into his sweater as she held onto him, her breath crashing against his throat. She pressed a hesitant kiss beneath his jaw and then to his mouth, trailing her way up his cheek before drawing back.

"Stay with me?" she requested, stepping back and forcing him to follow for she still clutched fistfuls of his sweater.

He stilled her hand when she yanked at the string of his amulet to entice him into quickening his gait, causing her eyes to widen in questioning. "Are you sure you want this?" he asked, rubbing soothing circles into her skin.

"I'm the one dragging you to my bed, aren't I?" But her voice was winded, her giggle trudging past anticipation's territory and straight into agitation's.

He took her chin, guiding it upward, and she submitted.

"Lead the way, vhenan," he said, and clasped his hands at his back as he waited for her to ascend.

Ellana kept glancing over her shoulder at him, flashing a little smile whenever their eyes locked. Solas caressed the small of her back at the top of the stairs, slipping a hand beneath her shirt and tracing the length of her spine as she shuddered. She brought her arms around his neck and stood on her toes to press her mouth to his. Pulled back once, twice, searching his face for a trace of something, before tentatively running her tongue over his bottom lip.

Solas sighed and tangled his hand in her hair for leverage, gentle but insistent. He tilted her head for better access, and parted his lips with his own, tasting her properly. His teeth closed over her lower lip, mirroring her previous act a bit more harshly, testing her reactions. He'd always been nothing but reserved, but she didn't seem to mind the sudden change, even though he felt the flush of her skin as she fumblingly swirled her tongue around his, still taken aback.

She tugged him toward the bed, fingers running up and down his clothed chest as his free hand roamed the warm expanse of her back, still pleasantly hidden beneath her shirt.

When she laughed, he pulled back to examine her face, planting a wet kiss to her cheek.

"You know, don't you?" she said, voice small. "You haven't asked, but you know."

"I didn't need to ask to gather that you are inexperienced. Your actions speak for themselves, vhenan."

"Ah." She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes fluttered shut when he lowered his lips to her neck, pushing aside fabric to reveal some of her shoulder in the process. "You don't mind?"

"Why would I?"

"It won't be as good for you."

"Do not say that; you are enough."

Solas took a step back. He cupped her face first, hands sliding over her throat and to the numerous buttons and ties of the apparel she wore. "I will undress you, very well?" he said.

"Yes," Ellana breathed, watching his fingers with a newly-discovered fascination.

He stripped her of her outer layers, caressing and occasionally kissing, if his position allowed sufficient reach, every bit of uncovered skin. Her breath hitched when he sneaked a hand beneath the waistband of her leggings and over the swell of her backside, giving it a little squeeze, as he tugged them down. And then she was before him in nothing but her smallclothes and her breastband.

"Why do you shiver, emma lath?" he whispered into her mouth and as she returned his kiss, he began unwrapping the oppressive material constricting her chest.

She exhaled a string of words he didn't quite understand, or didn't care to understand, and started working on hitching his own sweater up. But he had no buttons to undo or ties to pull loose, so her efforts consistently fell short.

He palmed her breasts, small and filling his hands so perfectly, and fondled her lean stomach. Fingers danced, teased, pinched supple skin. She tensed and gasped when he reached the spot between her legs. Her lips were at his ear, so tightly she was pressed against him, and he just softly stroked her flesh, gauging her response.

And when, at last, she lay sprawled beneath him, his knee parting her legs, he began discarding his own clothes.

"Let me help," Ellana murmured, wriggling under his weight to sit back up.

She tossed his sweater and worked on the fastenings of his breeches, pulling them down his hips. And then he was upon her once again, mouth latched onto her pulse point as he kissed and sucked and bit, soothing the marks he left with his tongue. One of his hands found its way back between her thighs, and he pressed a finger between her folds. She bucked in satisfaction, setting a languid pace of her own, until tremors began in her knees, causing him to retreat.

He pushed, hard and ready, against her, briefly grasping her hips to drag her away from the headboard at which she laughed.

"Talk to me," she requested, wrapping her arms tighter around him.

"You shall be the envy of the Winter Palace."

She let out a sound of surprise at the first thrust, and a soft exhale at the second. She touched him everywhere she could reach, mapping his body as he'd previously mapped hers.

 _Good_ , her lips formed the word, a silent question he should have been the one asking.

 _Good_ , his own lips answered back, wet and greedy, moving over hers, nipping, teasing.

He did not collapse atop her as he might have during a tryst with anyone else, choosing instead to trail a series of kisses down her body. He gave her stomach a lick, and rested his cheek against it, forceful puffs of air wheezing through his teeth. This was real and this was bliss; he did not need to question reality anymore as it proved itself in every bead of sweat on her skin, every love bite he'd left along her neck, and every word of adoration that tumbled from his lips in incoherent Elvhen. The personification of what he sought -- _still sought_ \-- to destroy lay willingly trapped beneath him, and he wanted to devour it until it was as much a part of him as the Pride that was at the core of his being.

She asked him to stay, voice shaky at the thought that he might not. He responded with a hum and crawled back up to gather her in his arms.

*

Solas wasn't sleeping, but he opened his eyes only because Ellana kissed his cheek and spoke his name.

"It is early yet, ma vhenan," he said, lazily turning his head to capture her lips.

Her hand slid down his chest. "I know," she whispered.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, not stopping her as she found the slowly hardening length of him and stroked. He allowed himself to enjoy the distraction for a little while before pushing her back. Ellana frowned, but did not relent, instead trying to swing one leg over his hips. Her attempt at straddling him did not go much better and he had her pinned down before long.

Solas didn't speak. He kissed her neck and caressed her cheeks before having her turn over to her side and press against him back to chest.

"Not like that," he said into her shoulder, one arm reaching around to hold her waist. "Not so soon."

"Oh," she said when he rubbed her stomach and dipped his hand between her thighs.

"Oh," he mimicked her, and let his fingers tease the wet flesh he found.

He circled and fondled, allowing a single finger to slip inside only after she keened. Her back arched and finally -- _finally_ \-- he got to bite that pearly shoulder of hers as she matched the rhythm of his hand with her hips. His own arousal pressed against her, and he pulled her tighter to him, allowing it to slip between her slick thighs. He tasted the sweat on her skin as a solitary droplet made to dribble down the nape of her neck and he caught it with his tongue, licking his way back to her ear and sucking on the tip.

When her breathing grew shallow, he curled his fingers inside her and it proved to be the final push she required. He gave a few jerky thrusts of his own and spent himself between her thighs and over her lower belly, muffling a groan into her hair. She was still trembling when he rolled her over, and for a while he did nothing but pepper the curve of her brow with gentle kisses until, at last, she relaxed and tiredly ran her nose along his cheek in an affectionate nuzzle.

"I think I can still sleep for an hour or two," she murmured.

"Quite so," Solas agreed and, unbeknownst to her, froze the lock on her door so no nosy adviser could barge in.

*

The disaster at Adamant had been just that -- a disaster.

He could see she was shaken and conflicted even after delivering her speech to the Wardens, but his own fury raged within like an untamed beast. He would not see all of this undone because she believed in showing this flawed world unnecessary mercy. If he had hair, he would have torn chunks of it out, and by the time she hesitantly strode into his rotunda, he was at her throat like a rabid animal.

"Wardens are fools," he snarled, crowding her as she waited out his tantrum, unimpressed. "They are puppets of Corypheus and will do his bidding again without second thought. Yet you welcomed them. Tell me, Inquisitor, do you wish to be slain in your sleep?"

Ellana sneered, pressing a hand to his chest. "First," she said through gritted teeth, "back off. Solas, for one so passionate about freedom for mages, you certainly show no regard for the lives of those who share your talents."

"They are past saving. You twist my words."

"That is what you believe."

"It's the painful truth and your naiveté prevents you from seeing it."

Ellana threw her arms up in desperation. Her lower lip trembled. "Whether you like it or not, we need the Grey Wardens. There will be other Blights, it's an inevitability, and none are better equipped to face them than say, oh I don't know, an ancient order trained for that very purpose."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing heavily and scrunching his eyes shut, but before he went off on another tirade, she hurried away. Ellana slammed the door so hard, the walls shook with the strength. Solas set off after her only to collide with an expecting Varric who all but jumped in his way.

"Oh, believe you me," the Dwarf said, seizing his arm and dragging him away, "she does not want to hear what you have to say."

Solas shrugged him off. "She is being a petulant child."

"Just because someone doesn't share your point of view doesn't make them a child, Chuckles."

"Ah, of course. But you are not partial to this, are you Master Tethras? Did she not save your friend from the Nightmare? Of course you'd support her utterly daft decision to endanger us all." Granted that was a low blow, but today felt like a day for such.

To his credit, Varric didn't take the bait. He shook his head and turned to leave. "I give up," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Go sleep it off."

Eventually, his anger dissolved to a nagging worry. Corypheus had been set a step back, thwarted once again, which meant that he drew ever so close to his foci. But still. They hadn't removed his forces entirely. Solas lay awake at night, just waiting for the moment the Wardens would turn on them -- but they did not, and he was forced to admit there might have been some truth to Ellana's words.

When they left for the Forbidden Oasis, he waited for night to fall before sneaking out of his tent to find her. Despite the oppressing heat of the day, once the sun set a horrible chill settled over the place. Such was the case with most desert areas, but apparently she hadn't expected it as she sat shivering, having taken the first watch.

Solas rubbed her back, fire swirling just beneath his fingertips and lending her warmth.

"I am sorry," he said, lowering his lips to her shoulder. "I am very much the hypocrite, am I not? Judging the Commander for disapproving of your alliance with the mages, and subsequently losing clarity of mind after my own beliefs were challenged."

"Yes, hahren," Ellana agreed. She was very quiet, but she did not push him away.

"You are doing such a splendid job, ma sa'lath. I cannot imagine your burden."

"I am so tired," she whispered, bringing her knees to her chest and pressing her forehead against them. "No matter what I do, someone will always disapprove. I am too kind, not kind enough, too much of an elf and yet simultaneously a flat-ear. They keep taking and taking -- and I don't know how much more I can give."

Her hands were raw and still a little bloody from scurrying up a rock to retrieve one of the shards they'd come hunting for. The scrapes curled around her wrists like morbid bracelets. Solas took her hands, sending a wave of healing magic through her blood. She'd always found the sensation oddly pleasurable, and her eyes fluttered shut as he repaired her skin.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist, closely followed by a second, and she submitted, allowing herself to be pulled against his chest.

"You do what you must," he said, resting his chin atop her head. "You have been given a power you never wanted and your reach has grown wide. Naturally, many seek your favor. Don't let my opinions sway you -- nor anyone else's. We are all selfish in our own way; we all have our personal agendas to further. Hear us out, but do not listen to us. It will save you a lot of pain, and you won't regret your choices."

"I trust your guidance."

"And I am glad for it, but don't let me influence you so thoroughly that the words you speak are mine."

She made a pensive sound deep in her throat. "Dorian needs to hunt down some Venatoris. Varric wants me to destroy Red Lyrium deposits. Vivienne has requested that I bring her the heart of a snowy wyvern, of all things. Cassandra seeks to avenge her Seekers. And don't let me forget all those nobles I must appease to keep Josephine happy. So many things. Too many things. I feel like there won't be any of me left by the time all of this is done."

Solas folded his hands over her stomach and the gesture seemed to pacify her. Her head rolled back onto his shoulder.

"Perhaps you should just rest for now," he suggested in a low tone.

"Perhaps," she sighed.

*

"Solas."

A streak of red before he dipped his brush into pure white and made the sunset an explosion of pale pink against the dull beige of the wall. He did not look up even as Ellana paced behind him. She massaged his shoulders as her teeth found the tip of his ear.

"Solas," she whispered again.

"Yes, vhenan?" he answered.

"How old are you, Solas?"

"Too old."

He picked up his sketch, a rough draft of the final fresco he would adorn Skyhold's walls with. The charcoal stained his fingers, but paint had already dried upon his skin so one more smudge was of no import. Memorizing the abstract curve of the forest he wanted to stretch out over the horizon, Solas squeezed a generous amount of green onto his palette.

He heard the impatient shuffle of feet behind him.

Then she was at his side again, tugging at his sleeve, halting his activities.

Solas raised an eyebrow, pausing. There would be no denying her.

"How old are you, Solas?"

"Forty-six," he said, hoping against hope a less vague response would earn him his freedom.

Ellana shook her head, settling in his lap, feet locking at his back. A prison of warm flesh and accusing eyes, she was. He sighed and dropped the paintbrush to stare at her. His hands instinctively went to her hips. A determination he'd never seen before had transformed her face into a harsh mask. However, he couldn't be the judge of its sincerity -- she was unreadable.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" she spoke very slowly, punctuating each word with contained intensity.

"You are not; I know it for a fact."

She scoffed. "I will ask one more time: how old are you, Solas?"

"And I shall reply as I have before: old enough, too old, forty-six. Pick whichever you prefer."

To his surprise, she actually smacked him. It wasn't violent, but enough to make his eyes widen and his jaw go slack. Her hands found the lapels of his shirt and she forced him to look at her. Despite her lithe figure, Ellana possessed a concealed type of strength and it showed; her skin felt like rock.

"You," she hissed, "are Elvhen."

"As are you." He tugged on her ear to illustrate his point.

" _Elvhen_ ," Ellana repeated, giving him a shake. "I didn't suddenly go deaf when you talked to that Sentinel at Mythal's temple. He treated you like kin and dismissed me as a pretender. And you know what? It makes sense. You speak our tongue with the fluency any Keeper would envy. Your Fade excuse can only go so far. You know too much, Solas, and you love talking. Your knowledge goes beyond anything that can be learned from exploration or reading -- it's been gathered through first-hand experience. I see right through you."

No, she did not, but he wouldn't tell her that.

He caressed her sides through her tunic in a vain attempt to quell her fury.

"We are just shadows to you," she whispered with sudden horror. "How can we be anything but?" Ellana batted a fist against his chest. "That's where the superiority comes from, isn't it?"

She moved to disentangle herself from him, but he held her fast. It ended up turning into a skirmish of sorts as she was angry, and she did not want to see his lying face as she so eloquently put it, and he wasn't ready to release her. Her knee caught him in the ribs as he lowered her onto the floor. He used his hips to immobilize hers, and slammed her wrists down after finally capturing the elusive little things.

"Stop squirming," he told her, rubbing his nose against her temple, inhaling her scent. "Yes, you are right. Is that what you wish to hear?"

"You lied to me."

"I did not."

She defiantly turned her head aside when he tried to kiss her, but it didn't faze him. He let his lips travel along the hollow of her throat and over her cheek before sinking his teeth into her shoulder as he so enjoyed doing.

"How could you keep this from me?" she demanded, still frowning but pulse quickening.

He made a noncommittal sound into her skin as he released one of her wrists before snatching both simultaneously with his other hand, securing them above her head. His fingers undid the ties at the front of her shirt and slipped inside to cup her breast.

"I kept nothing from you," Solas spoke in between languid kisses to her furrowed brow. "My heritage should not define your perception of me."

"And yet you condemn me based on mine," she argued.

He parted her thighs with his knee. "I don't condemn; I correct the faults your people insist on committing."

"That's an interesting way of phrasing it." But she was already sighing, turning her face back and accepting his lips upon hers. "Don't lie to me again."

Ellana's warning got stolen by his tongue, and she arched her back, pressing against him. Solas withdrew, briefly admiring the wet trail which glistened across the skin of her throat. He rose with her wrapped around him and ran his thumb over her lips.

"How quiet can you be?"

She stopped breathing for a second before resuming, and when she did he briefly dipped his digit into her mouth. "Why?" she asked.

"Because I am going to bend you over my desk and we wouldn't want to wake anyone, don't you think?" Solas said, his voice a low rumble at her ear. "Yes?"

"Yes," she replied as if in a haze.

Her kiss was sloppy and clumsy in her trepidation, but he turned her around and whispered everything he couldn't share -- not yet, not now, not here -- into the curve of her shoulder and soft mane of hair which cascaded down her back. The language she'd accused him of hoarding elicited shivers from her and it was blasphemy of the most delicious kind.

*

Solas ignored Dorian when he scoffed at him for pulling Ellana aside to braid her hair. She was heading out on some errand or other to Crestwood. And because the world was in perpetual conflict, it was an inevitability that her party would end up fighting its way out of a situation or two. Her hair always got in the way of clear vision, and he feared one day it would result in a wound he wouldn't be there to heal.

"What are you thinking about, Solas?" she asked.

He gave a deviant lock a gentle, teasing tug. "There is much to consider. Battle preparations. Supplies. We are to march soon, after all."

"I am glad for this excursion," she admitted. "It's a small dispute to settle, unimportant one might say, but it calms me to know there are still trifles for us to resolve. Matters that don't involve an ancient force hell bent on destroying the world."

"Indeed," Solas agreed, tying the end of her braid with a coarse band.

But the world would burn either way, if only for a heartbeat, and the Dread Wolf had hardened his heart to its fate. He stood, an unassuming figure all overlooked, braiding the hair of a tiny Dalish child as he accepted the realization that he would spare her, save her, and take her with him. If she loathed him in the aftermath, it would be equally worth it and unimportant as she would live. He would have her in any capacity, but not as a memory. She wouldn't be sacrificed at the altar of his ambition -- would not fall with the others like some bloody absolution for his sins as he made amends -- even at the unavoidable cost of her hatred.

"Off you go," Solas said.

And off she went.

**Author's Note:**

> AKA Solas is an asshole. AKA Solas picks fights with everyone. AKA Solas is the motherfucking king of passive-aggressive jabs. AKA Solas has a hair fetish. AKA Solas is a dick to everyone but Lavellan.
> 
> I had too much fun writing this.
> 
> Teehee <3


End file.
